


Interludes

by irishwoodkern



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishwoodkern/pseuds/irishwoodkern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots in the universe of 'Death and all of his Friends'. Hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Abbie and Ichabod spend some quality time together.

Abbie was startled out of the most delicious reverie by an insistent, shrill ringing sound. It shattered the quiet of the early afternoon and broke through the delightful cocoon that had been established inside the bedroom of the cabin. Though sorely tempted to ignore it, she patted the bed, eventually locating the errant phone discarded beneath the pillows.

She swore to herself as she read the name on the screen.

_Damn._

It was Irving. She had left a message with his secretary making excuses for not coming into the station this morning. After Henry's death and her abduction by Andy Brooks, she needed to spend some time recovering, she had said.

_Recovering._

Abbie smiled to herself. That was what she and Crane had spent much of yesterday afternoon and last night doing.

At that moment, Crane was slowly kissing his way from her ankle to her toes, and she was extremely ticklish. She nudged the side of his head with her other foot as she answered the call.

'Mills.'

'I've heard you're taking some unauthorised leave today.' The tone of Irving's voice suggested that he was not in a mood to be trifled with.

Abbie gasped as Crane licked the base of her foot.

'Yes, sir,' she replied, struggling to regain composure while at the same time trying to regain possession of her leg. 'I needed to… uh… rest up after everything that's happened…'

'Well, good. You're no good to me if you're running on empty.'

Abbie was nonplussed by her employer's reaction, but her mind was distracted by the realisation that Crane was sucking each of her toes in turn.

'In fact, I don't want to see your face until next week. That's an order.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Say hi to Crane for me.'

Abbie barely had time to register her surprise before Irving finished the call.

She turned her attention to the man between her legs, trying to assume a stern expression. 'You're going to get me fired, you know.'

Crane looked mischievously up at her. 'Forgive me, my lady,' he said, slowly moving up her body, planting kisses here and there. 'How can I atone for my grievous error?'

Abbie ran her fingers over his cheeks, through his hair and down over his shoulders. He was so beautiful; she thought she would never grow tired of exploring the contours of his body. She dragged her nails down his back, varying the pressure to wring a tantalising mixture of pleasure and pain from him.

'My love,' he murmured, shivering agreeably. 'You will be the end of me.'

'Hmm,' Abbie replied. 'I'm looking forward to seeing that.'

Crane grabbed the back of her knee and pulled her tight against him. His intention made plain, he kissed her slowly and thoroughly.

As much as she was enjoying it, Abbie would not lose herself completely in his embrace. She loved to tease him by ceding control before shocking him with her lips, nails or tongue. She bit his lower lip, sucking gently and enjoying the muffled growl that came from her lover's mouth.

He pulled away, breathing heavily.

'Abbie?' There was supplication in his voice.

'Please,' she whispered desperately. 'Take me. I need you now.'

Crane kissed her softly, sending a shudder of delicious sensuous pleasure through her as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Her eyes opened wide with surprise as he positioned himself behind her, pressing his body against hers.

The prospect of making love without being able to see his face was strangely thrilling. It was all about trust, all about sensation.

Her pulse quickened as his fingers moved over her skin, barely touching, tickling. His hand brushed against her breast, making her jump slightly as it trailed softly over her stomach. He reached his fingers between her legs, stroking the tender flesh with loving care.

Abbie hooked her foot behind Crane's ankle and held on for dear life.

She let out a shaky breath as they came together. The feeling was almost overwhelming, a sudden burst of light and heat like the completion of an electric circuit. She reached behind her, seeking him, anxious to bring him ever closer. She had never felt so whole, so connected to another person as she did in that moment.

'Oh, Ichabod,' she moaned. 'I love you… I love you.'

Crane gently kissed her shoulder, moving slowly, letting the sound of her breaths be his guide. He increased his pace, feeling the familiar tension growing between them. He held back, resisting the temptation to take his pleasure, waiting for the intensity of Abbie's cries to reach a crescendo.

He felt her body tense and tighten like the string of a bow before releasing, plummeting downwards like a bird through the clear air. He soon followed, waves of ecstasy crashing over him as words of love spilled from is lips.

They both quieted, slowly pulling themselves and each other back from the brink of some other mysterious plane, where life and death, pain and pleasure, love and loss were one and the same.

Abbie turned to face him, her eyes lit up with wonder. 'Well, Mr. Crane.' She paused and kissed him deeply. 'I think you've redeemed yourself.'

'Glad to hear it.' He leaned towards her and kissed her ever so gently, savouring the sweetness of her lips.

As they pulled apart, Abbie grinned with sheer contentment. 'Is there anything I can do in return?'

Crane considered her thoughtfully for a moment. 'Well, if I might suggest…'

'Yes?'

'…some breakfast?'


	2. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve gives Crane some perspective.

_Crane pulled the robe over his head and straightened his hair before regarding his reflection. He was sure he looked well; one could scarcely look otherwise in the ceremonial hooded robe which signified his status as a graduate of Merton College._

_He knew he should feel proud of himself; he was graduating at the top of his class in one of England's most prestigious seats of learning. If he played his cards right, he would soon have tenure as a professor of languages. He would step out from the long shadow of his father and become his own man._

_Then why did he feel so unsure of himself? Why did he feel as if he was trading one form of dishonesty for another?_

_Sick to his stomach, he opened the door of his sleeping quarters and prepared to meet his future._

'Crane? Earth calling Crane!'

It took a moment for Crane to realise where he was. He was back in the archives and Maeve Burke was seated opposite him, a quizzical look on her thin, pixie-like face.

'Forgive me, what did you say?'

'I said, you've been staring at that book for half an hour. Have you found anything?'

It was Thursday night, and they were rifling through the books and manuscripts which lined the shelves of the large room, vainly looking for answers. It seemed as if their war against Moloch had come to a standstill. Since Katrina's death, they had made frustratingly little progress in their attempts to defeat Moloch's plans to bring on the apocalypse.

'Nothing of great moment.' Crane sighed in irritation. 'It would help if the others were here to help us.'

'Well, unfortunately Abbie is on a date with Luke, my husband is on some boy's own adventure with Jenny, and Captain Irving is taking his daughter to the movies. We're on our own.'

Crane glowered at Maeve's words. Ever since the night of Abbie's birthday, he had been in a state of confusion and tumult regarding his feelings for her. He felt upended and vulnerable, pierced by a shard of some unknown force which slowly burrowed its way towards his heart with an inexorable will. He could not bear to examine his heart too closely for fear of what he would uncover. All he knew for sure was that the thought of Abbie and Luke together made his skin crawl.

He looked down at the book in front of him – a guide to the collection of the National College of Art in Washington, D.C. He had been idly perusing the paintings when he came across 'A Graduate of Merton College, Oxford', a painting which featured a young alumnus of Crane's old college. Suddenly, memories flooded back to him, feelings of love and warmth that centred around his father.

Since Crane's discovery of his father's affair with his indentured servant Maria, his attitudes towards him had undergone a complete sea change. He no longer saw him as a demigod who seemed to dominate his conscience. Instead, he was a man with feet of clay, a man capable of error. Nevertheless, there was a part of his heart that still called out for his father. There was a part of Crane that still longed to reconcile with him.

'Penny for your thoughts?' Maeve asked.

'I was merely thinking about my father. The day of my graduation from Merton College stands out in my memory. Walking out through the door of my bedchamber, knowing that my father was waiting for me, knowing that he was proud of me.' He smiled. 'That knowledge, that confidence has sustained me through terrible hardships in my life. It sustains me still. Sometimes, when I walk through a door, I half expect to find my father waiting for me.'

Maeve seemed confused. 'I'm sorry, but wasn't this the man who disowned you, the man who cut you off?'

'Yes, but I'm convinced that we would have reconciled, had I not, well…'

'Died?' Maeve supplied.

'Quite.'

Maeve looked intently at Crane, as if she could use her druidic powers to see deep inside him, to know his deepest secrets and intentions.

'Your father didn't love you, Crane. I hate to tell you this, but he didn't love you.'

Crane looked at Maeve in shock and annoyance. 'Of course he loved me. He may not have been perfect, but he was my father.'

'Some parents don't love their children.' Maeve shrugged. She stared down at her hands, contemplating them deeply. 'I was twelve when I had my first… vision, whatever you call it. It happened by pure accident, and it was scary and weird but I was elated too. It made me special.' She smiled a little sadly. 'I ran and told my mother, but of course she didn't believe me. When the vision came true she was so scared, so sad. She told me I must never tell anyone about that side of me. People would never understand.

'I did what she said. I tried to be normal – I tried for years. One day, I wouldn't do it anymore and I told her so. She said that unless I could be the kind of daughter she could be proud of, I could leave and never come back. She threw me out on the streets.'

There were pinpricks of tears in Maeve's eyes. She nervously tugged at her sleeves, hiding the needle marks, hiding the shame.

'That was the day I realised that she didn't love me – my own mother. Parents are supposed to love their children, no matter what. But she only loved the part of me that she wanted – the perfect daughter. To be that person I had to hide, I had to be somebody else. Eventually I met Finbarr and I realised that sometimes it's possible for people to choose their family.'

Was it possible? For years he had lived with the belief that it had all been a misunderstanding, that his father would have eventually forgiven him for defecting to the side of the patriots. The breach between them would someday have healed. Despite everything, he had never really doubted his father's love for him, not until that moment.

Crane dropped his eyes to the painting before him, to the young man in his ceremonial robes staring at him with a proud unflinching gaze. He felt an unexpected sense of defiant pride. The young man represented all that he used to be. He could not erase it or change it, nor could he change his relationship with his father. He could never take back all that had passed between them, but at the same time, he did not have to allow his father to dictate how he lived his life.

He looked back at Maeve, no longer able to deny the wisdom of her words. 'I believe you may be right, Miss Burke. Perhaps I have spent too long grieving the family I have lost. Perhaps it is time I appreciated the family I have chosen.'


	3. In Sickness and in Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie has some news for Ichabod.

Abbie dismissed it as food poisoning at first. The night before – too exhausted to cook – they had ended up eating some leftover sushi. She now wondered if the fish might have been a little off. Between work and the stress and upheaval of the recent months, she reasoned that her immune system might be a little low. It wasn't just her, though. All day, she had taken turns with Crane using the bathroom to throw up.

The last six months had been a whirlwind of activity. Crane moving in with her had been a big adjustment. It turned out that she liked her space and her own company more than she had known. The realisation that she would practically never be alone again was a surprisingly big shock to the system. Another surprise was the discovery of how much room one lanky Brit could take up. Whatever she did, he was always there – in her kitchen, in her shower, in her bed.

She lay awake one night, watching him sleep, one arm tightly gripping her waist. She felt a sudden panic, a desire to flee. For most of her adult life she had avoided attachments, knowing that no matter how much she loved someone, they would inevitably leave or break her heart. That much was a given.

A great swell of bitterness washed over her as she gazed at the man she had promised to marry.

 _How dare you?_ She thought furiously. _How dare you come into my life and rob me of my freedom? I didn't ask for this – any of it! I didn't ask to be a Witness, to be shackled to a man until the end of my days through a freaking blood bond! It sucks – I hate it!_

After a while, her breathing slowed and she felt a sense of calm overtake her. The rational part of her brain kicked in, realising that this was just anxiety. Tomorrow she would feel differently.

 _Get it together girl,_ she told herself. _You know he won't leave you. He loves you. This is permanent._

From that moment on, there was an incredible sense of comfort in having him there every day. She would have a minor freak out from time to time, like that one occasion when he accidentally used her toothbrush (she was only human after all). In the main, it suited her just fine.

The preparations for their wedding took up most of their free time after that. Though they both wanted as simple a ceremony as possible, there were seemingly endless contingencies that needed to be accounted for. It was exhausting and stressful and almost succeeded in sapping the joy out of their lovely day.

For a few blessed minutes inside the chapel, surrounded by their few precious loved ones, they were able to forget everything else and focus on each other.

Abbie tried to concentrate on those happy memories as she hunched over the toilet, her stomach roiling. As much as she knew logically that she was suffering from a biological reaction to a stomach flu or some bad tuna, it was hard not to take her current misery personally. What made it marginally more bearable was knowing that her husband was suffering as much as she was.

_Only she wasn't such a baby about it, _she thought bitterly.__

That was when she realised what was happening. This wasn't food poisoning, nor was it a by-product of a compromised immune system.

This was… _life._

The shock was short-lived; after all, she had stopped taking the Pill immediately after the wedding. When Crane proposed to her she announced – as much to her amazement as to his – that she wanted to try for kids as soon as possible. They had wasted too much time already; they had lost too many loved ones to Moloch's evil.

By the time she got back from seeing Dr. Gibbons the next day, Crane was up and cleaning the fridge with a vengeance.

'Crane, what are you doing?'

'Disposing of this fetid mess of decaying food. I've told you a thousand times, this ice-box is a haven for disease.'

Abbie smiled. Since moving in together, she had discovered that her new husband was something of a neat-freak. 'It wasn't the food, Crane.'

When he continued pulling out boxes of old takeout, she adopted her work voice – the one that brooked no opposition. 'Ichabod, listen to me. I went to the doctor today.'

Crane turned to look at her in alarm. 'Tell me it's nothing serious.'

Abbie could see a sheen of sweat gathering on his brow.

'Calm down, I'm not sick at all. In fact…' She paused, trying to think of the best way to break it to him.

'For heaven's sake, Abbie. Don't leave me in suspense.'

'I'm pregnant.'

He looked at her in silent astonishment for what seemed like an eternity. She could almost see his brain processing the information, until he finally shook his head in disbelief.

'You're…' he stammered. 'But that means I've been…'

'Empathising,' she supplied. Whether it was their connection as Witnesses or as lovers, or because of the blood-tie, Crane had clearly been experiencing morning sickness with her. 'You should really stop doing that.'

Crane gathered her in his arms and for the first time since their shared bout of sickness, he was able to kiss her properly.

Later, as they lay in bed, he touched her belly with joyful anticipation. 'How big is he right now?' he whispered.

Abbie noted the 'he' but didn't object. It felt like a he.

'He's about the size of an acorn.' She sensed her husband smile at the image.

'Do you think he knows how much he's wanted?'

She felt her throat constrict with emotion. 'I don't think so. But he will.'

A memory came back to him, a dream he had once had. This was what he had dreamed of – this very moment. It had been surrounded by sadness, though. He had believed that he would never experience that sense of joy for real.

Abbie tangled her fingers in his hair. 'Crane, I love you so much,' she whispered.

That was when Crane knew that his dream had come true.


	4. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie has an encounter that sets things in motion.

Two weeks had passed since Crane's fateful encounter with the trickster-demon. Two weeks since he opened his eyes and allowed Abbie to drag him back into the real world. Though physically he was very much his usual robust self, Abbie could not help noticing something vulnerable and lost in his demeanour. Most of the time he hid it well. He immersed himself in research, spending hours in the archives, boning up on demonology and the occult.

However, from time to time Abbie would spot him staring off into the middle distance, perhaps remembering the lost life he had regained so briefly, only to have it snatched away again. Abbie's heart broke whenever she glimpsed the look of sadness on his face. She knew she had done the right thing in entering his dream to bring him back. At the same time, she felt a pang of guilt had having destroyed Crane's happy illusion.

Her days and nights were filled with Crane now, though not in the ways she wished. Her days were consumed with concern for him, for his health and his mental well-being. She was obsessed in making sure that he was physically healthy, that the danger of the blood bond did not return to haunt them before she discovered a way to sever it.

The nights were pure torture. Realising the depth of her feelings for Crane had only served to widen the gulf between them. Knowing that she could never be with him was agony. She would lie awake, imaging the myriad ways she wanted Crane to touch her. She could almost feel the weight of him, his long limbs anchoring her to the bed while he lavished kisses on every inch of her eager body.

She almost laughed at her own perversity. Crane was nothing like the type of man she usually went for. She liked strong, athletic men, whereas Crane was a string bean on legs. Knowing that didn't stop her from dreaming about him, from bringing herself off to fantasies so vivid that she was almost too ashamed to look at him in the morning.

One bright Tuesday morning, Abbie received a call from Mr. Lee, the archivist at the Old Dutch Church. Months before, she had sent out a general request for librarians, archivists, curators and local historians to contact her should they come across any information that might help them in their crusade against Moloch. Naturally, she coded it in innocuous language, so she wasn't holding out much hope of a response.

She was happy, if not relieved to leave Crane in Maeve's care while she went to talk to Mr. Lee. Maeve had taken a keen interest in Crane's welfare of late. She seemed perfectly content to keep him company while Abbie went about her daily routine of non-demonic activities. In the silent companionship between the grieving man and the taciturn girl, there seemed to be an understanding that might one day deepen into permanent friendship.

When Abbie arrived at the Church, the whole place had a deserted, almost eerie look. She walked around the back and was perturbed when she found the office locked up. She entered the chapel, wondering if she was early or had misunderstood the arrangements. Strolling up the centre aisle, she admired the airy brightness of the place, so different from the gloomy churches she had known as a child.

She was about to leave when a shockingly young pastor emerged from an inner chamber beyond the altar. He reacted with surprise at seeing her.

'Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt your reflections.'

'Not at all,' Abbie smiled. 'My name is Lieutenant Mills from the Sheriff's Department. I had an appointment to speak with Mr. Lee.'

'I'm afraid Michael was called away rather suddenly – a family emergency.'

Abbie resisted the temptation to swear.

'Is there something I can help you with? My name is Pastor Ross, but please call me Matthew.'

'Not unless you have access to the archives,' she replied, clutching at straws. She was quickly realising that this journey had been a waste of time.

Matthew shook his head apologetically. When Abbie thanked him and turned to leave, he ventured to speak again.

'I hope you don't mind my saying so – I know you're not a congregant – but you seem somewhat troubled.'

Abbie smiled politely. ''Thank you for your concern, but I'm a police officer. That goes with the territory.'

She had a sudden portent of danger. The unexpected phone call from an archivist, the deserted appearance of the church – it bore all the hallmarks of a trap.

Abbie looked at Matthew and immediately dismissed her paranoid thoughts. He looked almost painfully young and inexperienced, yet clearly eager to tend to one of God's flock. Not exactly a servant of Moloch.

_What could be the harm?_

She slowly seated herself in one of the pews. The youthful pastor sat in the seat in front of her, a posture oddly reminiscent of Catholic confession.

'I work with a man,' she began slowly. 'We're friends – partners. We've been through a lot together, risked our lives together. But lately...' She found it impossible to continue; the words simply would not come out.

After a long pause, she heard Matthew speak softly. 'You suspect that your feelings for this man have transformed into something else?'

'Yes,' Abbie breathed, surprised at his perceptiveness. She guessed that such a quality might be an advantage in his profession. He was a good listener too; it felt good to unburden herself in this way.

'Have you considered telling him?'

She shook her head uselessly. 'He's lost his wife recently. I shouldn't even be having these feelings.'

'I see.'

There was another long silence. Abbie imagined what Matthew might think of her; some floozy lusting after her married colleague. Physical desire was generally frowned upon at by men of the cloth. Adultery was a mortal sin.

But how could he possibly know how she felt? She was deeply in love with a man yet scared to death of telling him. What was worse, she was bound to him by a supernatural spell that entwined their fates forever. Such knowledge was beyond the comprehension of even the most devout person.

'I wish I could say I understand how you're feeling,' Matthew said slowly. 'But I do know something about keeping a secret – something so great you think the whole world will cave in if you say it out loud.'

She looked up in surprise. Though she couldn't see his face, she heard the tension, the tightly controlled pain in his voice. Call it gut instinct or the knowledge of human nature that came with the job, but Abbie instantly knew what his secret was.

There was something about how he spoke and moved – a slight incline of the head that spoke of years of hiding who he was. Of desperately wanting to serve mankind but knowing deep down that those same people would judge him. She felt a swell of sympathy for the young man.

Matthew was speaking again. 'I think that telling him at this present point would only cause more pain. But don't be too downhearted – these feelings might fade with time.'

He spoke with the naïve hope of youth, but still Abbie felt a sudden sense of release, combined with a new-found determination. She would beat this thing.

If willpower alone wasn't enough, then a distraction was what was needed. It was her birthday in a few days and Luke Morales had asked her out to dinner. She would finally have the opportunity to wear her new strapless sunset yellow dress and take her mind of Crane.

If she couldn't undo Katrina's spell, she would do her damnedest to undo the feelings that kept it in place. Surely that would be enough. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and prayed it was enough.

It was all 'Matthew' could do not to laugh. People were so easily led when their hearts were concerned. He sensed Abbie's indecision, her pain and yearning. He also knew that one of two things would happen if Abbie confessed everything to Crane. Either her love for him would vanish like a will-o'-the-wisp in daylight, or Crane would return her feelings. And where would be the fun in that?

After all, there was nothing trickster-demons loved more than fun.


	5. The Pledge

Abbie carried a sleeping Grace up the stairs, luxuriating in the warmth of her tiny body. Though still a baby in her mother’s eyes, Abbie could feel her daughter growing bigger and heavier by the day. 

_Time zips by_ , Abbie thought sadly. _Before I know it she’ll be at school. My delicious baby will be a wilful girl, full of opinions and wishes of her own._

Abbie carefully laid the small bundle in her crib and dressed her in her favourite sky-blue pyjamas. She tucked the infant carefully in and kissed her soft cheek. She sighed to herself as she watched her slumbering child. There was no worry or bad feeling that her babies couldn’t make better.

She stopped by Henry’s room to say goodnight, but found him also sleeping the sleep of the righteous. His children’s book of Greek myths lay open across his chest. There was something so moving in that image that Abbie felt a hitch in her breath. He had clearly tried to wait up for his Daddy. There was nothing Henry loved more than the nightly ritual of story time.

Abbie trailed down the stairs, thinking of the argument that had ignited between her and Crane some hours earlier. She had become so obsessed with the idea of the kids being orphaned that a perfectly innocuous conversation escalated into an all-out row.

‘Why don’t we split up now?’ she had blurted out, much to her shame. ‘At least get the kids used to the idea while they’re young.’

She remembered Crane’s face, so heartbroken and confused by her outburst.

‘You mean we should separate? How can you even suggest that?’

Abbie knew she was hurting him, but her fear and anxiety overtook all rational thought. ‘You know the rules of the blood-bond as well as I do. If one of us gets sick, the other one does. If one of us dies…’

‘Don’t even say that!’ His voice betrayed his heartbreak at the very notion of losing her. ‘We knew the risks when we began our relationship. “Hold fast to one another, and hope for the best.” That was a solemn vow, Abbie.’

Somehow, things only got worse from there. It culminated it Crane walking out – something he never did. The only concession he made to proper behaviour was closing the door carefully behind him so as not to disturb the children.

It was dark outside now, and Abbie’s mind swirled with fear. Despite the strides forward her husband had taken since the beginning of their life together, he was still very much a stranger to this century, an innocent. There were countless things that could happen to a man like him in this time.

Just as she had convinced herself that he had been kidnapped, robbed or killed, or all three, the door swung open. Crane stood in front of her panting with exertion. She was so overwhelmed with relief that she barely heard the words he spoke.

She noticed a look in his eye that she rarely saw, a ravenous, almost animalistic desire for her. He meant to have her and she had no objection whatsoever.

He swooped upon her, kissing her through her tears. Meanwhile, she clawed at his chest, struggling to divest him of the only barrier between them. As soon as she had removed his shirt, she ran her fingers over his chest, feeling the heat that radiated from him. His heart thudded in his chest, a testament to the effects of adrenaline, mixed in with relief and an unyielding hunger for his wife.

In the blink of an eye, he had her on the couch, hands roaming over her luscious curves. He heard her gasp as he nipped at her neck, pausing to pull her T-shirt over her head.  
She panted raggedly, unable to form words, her brain fogged with need. Crane got to work on her jeans while she quickly removed her bra. This was not the time for slow and seductive.

‘Crane,’ she whispered huskily, drawing him towards her and kissing him deeply.

‘My love, my darling,’ Crane murmured between soft kisses. He moved down her body, using lips, tongue and teeth to set her skin ablaze. He alternated between her breasts, softly caressing, teasing with hands and mouth until she was moaning aloud.

Meanwhile, her hands made short work of his trousers, pulling them down just far enough that he was able to kick them off by himself. Taking control, she rolled him over onto his back, seeing the love and desperation shining from his eyes.

‘Never leave me,’ she breathed, joining her body with his.

‘Never,’ he vowed.

They continued making promises long into the night.


	6. A Sacred Ritual

Crane examined his reflection closely as he put the finishing touches on his _toilette_. He had spent the best part of an hour on his clothes and hair, having sent his army coat, breeches and shirt to be specially laundered. He told himself it had nothing to do with vanity.

This was for the Lieutenant.

He had been involved in an intimate relationship with Abbie for almost a year, but he was a man who strongly believed in the sanctity of marriage. For all that the modern world had changed his attitudes in many respects, in this one point he was immovable.

They had planned this day for months now, every detail mapped out with painstaking care. Only now, with barely an hour until the event, did he begin to feel nervous. It was foolish, he told himself. He could not remember feeling any apprehension before his wedding to Katrina. He recalled an effervescent happiness, a sense of optimism and hope.

Now he was a different man, a man tempered by trial and grief. He was older and – he hoped – wiser, but nonetheless he held the same dreams for the future. The difference was that his future lay in the hands of another.

* * *

Crane sat at a long table atop the dais. The hall was overcrowded and stuffy and the speeches had gone on far too long, leaving him a touch irritable. When the food finally arrived, it was overcooked and unappetising. He had not consumed anything since breakfast other than _canapés_ and too much champagne. Now he was eager to be elsewhere.

The ceremony itself was everything he had hoped for. He was sure his heart stopped beating when the church organ began to play and Abbie appeared, as beautiful as an angel. She wore a gown made from shimmering white cloth, sewn with beads which occasionally caught the light, dazzling the eye with their radiance. The neckline hung low displaying the merest glimpse of _décolletage_ , the shining fabric clinging to each lovely curve. The sleeves were long and were held in place by small loops over the middle fingers of each hand. A short train followed, giving her the elegant glide of a swan in motion.

Jenny escorted her down the aisle, her dress the colour of cherry blossoms. As they approached the altar, Crane noticed the smile they shared. It was the unspoken communication of sisters, a secret code that could not be broken by separation, marriage or death.

The rest of the day had been a haze of activity, of shaking hands in the hot sun and standing for photographs. As Crane stabbed a piece of fish on his plate, his mind lingered on the perfect few minutes inside the chapel. He was startled out of his reverie by Abbie's warm hand slipping into his.

'Penny for your thoughts, lover?' she whispered.

Her voice was like a draught of some honeyed liquor trickling down his throat. He suddenly felt revived.

'Only of you, pretty wife,' he replied, raising her hand to his lips and tenderly kissing it. 'Might I escape for a spell? I crave a breath of fresh air.'

'Can I come too? It's stifling in here.'

As soon as Crane left the hall behind him, a blast of cool air hit his lungs. He laid his head against the cool tile on the wall, revelling in the temporary silence that surrounded them both.

'Crazy day, huh?'

He opened his eyes and saw a loving smile gracing Abbie's lips. Every pore of him felt alive, and he had a sudden crazed impulse.

'Come with me.' He grabbed her hand and pulled her along the corridor.

'Crane!' Abbie laughed breathlessly. 'What are you doing?'

He opened a door and peered into another room. When satisfied that it was empty, he drew her inside and closed the door. That done, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her hard.

After a few moments, Abbie pulled away and started when she realised that they were standing on the dance floor, decorated with ribbons and balloons in preparation for their guests. Her brain vaguely registered the fact that people would start wandering in from the dining room in a few scant minutes.

Crane's mouth was pressed against the skin of her neck, slowly trailing kisses downwards, his hands clutching her waist.

'We can't…' she mumbled. 'Not here.'

'Yes here!' Crane said gruffly, surprising himself with his vehemence.

'Damn it,' she moaned, reaching beneath his coat to anchor herself to his body. 'That feels too good.'

'Now, Abbie,' he murmured against her lips before kissing her again, his tongue moving deftly inside her mouth. He swallowed her moans, feeling himself infected with a kind of madness. This was not how he imagined their first time together as a married couple. It should have been slow and reverential, a sacred ritual sealing their vows to love and cherish one another all their days.

He imagined himself slowly undressing her, paying homage to every delicious inch of silken skin with mouth and hands. He wanted to slowly drive her mad with longing, to make her burn for him, drawing out her satisfaction until she could bear it no more. He wanted to make the night belong to them.

Instead, he found himself hiking his wife's skirts up like some gawkish youth maddened with lust. He knew he should feel some measure of embarrassment, of denying Abbie what was due to her, but he could not. Her short, exhilarated breaths and groans of pleasure fired his blood. This moment put his plans to shame. It was perfect; it was theirs.

He lifted her onto the edge of a nearby table. His hands made a slow, tortuous journey up her legs, tracing their lines, revelling in the sounds of desperation that came from Abbie's lips. In one fluid motion, he removed her underwear, then quickly unbuttoned the front of his breeches.

'Do you wish me to continue?' he whispered.

'I… I… I…'

'You what, Mrs. Crane?' he teased, pulling her ever closer to his body.

'I do.'


	7. The End of all Things

It happened quickly, if that makes it easier.

As the years went by, Crane's fame as a biographer of the Founding Fathers grew. His affectionate yet dispassionate insights into their lives allowed the public to see those legendary men in all their tarnished glory. Many academics railed against this amateur historian who presumed to rewrite the lives of America's greatest heroes, but gradually, Crane attained a cult following.

His fans began to flock to Sleepy Hollow to catch a glimpse of the reclusive man. Crane was shocked at the notoriety that emanated from his works, but slowly began to embrace his new-found fame. He welcomed his visitors into his colonial house for lively discussions ranging from Ancient Greek history to Gothic architecture, piracy in sixteenth-century Barbados to modern politics – rounded off with plenty of tea and cake.

Abbie's career in Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department advanced quickly, in spite of having three children in quick succession. Her fierce dedication to her job, coupled with her keen intelligence and determination to protect the town allowed her to steadily climb the ranks. Shortly before her forty-fifth birthday she became Sheriff Mills-Crane, much to the delight of her husband and the confused indifference of their young children.

The news of Frank Irving's early retirement – forced on him by a two heart attacks in quick succession – made Abbie rethink her priorities. The true toll of their war against Moloch was slowly revealing itself, and she knew that the conditions of the blood-tie still held true. With their children still in school, she knew that she could no longer tempt fate by putting herself in harm's way.

After a mere five months as Sheriff, she shocked her colleagues by taking early retirement and opening a private detective agency across town. It was something of a relief to be able to pick and choose what cases she wanted to pursue. The thornier ones she would take to her husband to untangle, their brains working together to unpick missing persons' cases, frauds and embezzlements. In some ways, it felt like old times again.

Years flew by, and their children grew up much too fast. Henry went to medical school in New York, dying to see the world beyond the confines of Sleepy Hollow. Despite all his good intentions, he found himself drawn back home with increasing frequency. Like his father before him, he fell irresistibly in love with his best friend.

Nuala Morales grew up two streets away from his home, the daughter of two of his parents' closest friends – Luke Morales and Maeve Burke. They were inseparable as children, but when he went away to college, something changed between them. He found his aspirations begin to alter – his ambition to become a cardiothoracic surgeon compared unfavourably to the life of a small town G.P. His mind was made up for him on the day of his graduation, when Nuala approached him – dark Hispanic features contrasting her green Irish eyes – and kissed him, sealing their fates and hearts forever.

Grace was her mother right down to the ground, strong, fearless and utterly indomitable. Her father's genes shone through in her blue eyes and long limbs. At twelve, she was as tall as Crane's shoulder and excelled at track and field. She always seemed to have one eye on the horizon, eager to follow the example of the strong women in her life, particularly her aunt Jenny whom she idolised. After college, she went straight into the navy, travelling the world and slaking her thirst for adventure. Ten years went by and Grace began to yearn for more, feeling helpless in the face of all the poverty and injustice in the world. She returned to school and trained as teacher, dedicating herself to promoting literacy in the most deprived parts of the world.

Kat was an oddity, a free spirit named after her father's mysterious first wife. When asked about Katrina, Crane's only reply was "she died so that others might live". There was a certain wildness about Kat that her parents could not explain but Jenny attributed to "the witchiness in the family". Kat studied tap, ballet and contemporary dance before dabbling in painting, pottery and finally embracing Wicca.

Abbie and Crane felt some amazement when she opened a café in Sleepy Hollow, where she sold her handmade line of clay dinnerware and the blankets that she weaved on her loom. Kat had no real head for business but she had a loyal customer base of locals who embraced her eccentricity and genuinely loving nature. After many years, she found herself falling for Jonathan, the bearded mountain of a man who supplied organic vegetables to her café. She moved to his small holding a few miles outside the town, where they lived in cosy domestic bliss, surrounded by their many animals.

With their children grown and their grandchildren coming into bloom, Crane and Abbie settled into the autumn of their lives. Crane finally undertook the definitive work on his hero and friend George Washington, a three-volume work that covered his life and achievements, not concealing the more unpleasant aspects of his personality. A week after the final volume had been delivered to his publisher, not long before his sixty-fourth birthday, he began to feel unwell.

Though he kept fit and ate carefully – despite a decidedly sweet tooth – no man can live forever, even one who has lived two lives.

He was in his beloved office, reaching for a copy of Plato when a blinding pain shot down his arm into his shoulder. The pain slowly ebbed away, leaving in its wake an overwhelming sensation of well-being. Images of his bifurcated life floated in and out of his consciousness – long-dead comrades from the war, Katrina's innocent and inscrutable smile, the pain of the Horseman's killing blow, his first glimpse of Abbie, the weight of a newborn Henry in his arms.

By the time he realised he was dying, his only wish was to hold Abbie one more time. His next thought – and his last – was that soon he would… any moment now…

In her small office, Abbie was scribbling a makeshift psychological profile of her new client. It was a perfectly natural task, one that felt as familiar to her as breathing. She could not understand the sudden fear that gripped her mind, nor could she understand why her head felt so heavy that she had to lay it gently on the desk in front of her.

The pen slipped from between her fingers, and Grace Abigail Mills-Crane, former Witness to the Apocalypse and Sheriff of Sleepy Hollow, mother of three, grandmother of five and friend to many felt no more pain.

Losing two parents at once hit their children like a hurricane, the shock nearly destroying a family which had been bound together so fiercely. It was Kat who emerged from her grief long enough to remind her siblings that neither parent would have wanted to live without the other, so perhaps the inexplicable tragedy was a blessing in disguise.

They were buried together – nestled between the graves of their fallen comrades Katrina and Finbarr – side by side in death as they had been in life. Another grave would soon follow – that of their dear friend Luke Morales, a victim of the same cancer that claimed his father.

The town came to a halt that day, businesses closing their doors as a mark of respect to a couple that had they had viewed almost as parents. The cemetery was filled with friends, honouring the Cranes and offering support to those that had loved them the most. A larger crowd of Crane's followers waited outside, heartbroken at the loss of the man they had admired and loved.

Their duties as Witnesses had long past – their time as parents, partners and friends lost and gone. From where they lay, they could forever keep watch over the town of Sleepy Hollow – their eternal vigilance guarding it from all harm.

It was as they would have wished it.


End file.
